"Dr. Plagerist's Extended Research on Model #8"

Alex Graham
Written in November of 2010

Model #8 meets Model #11 in the street. The Following is an Excerpt from a Serendipitous Exchange Between Two Humanoid Specimens, Wherein ... as told by Model #8 "Imagine a pack of Wolves -- I'm getting at pack mentality. The CEO pisses in the Holy water because it gets him off. He pisses in the tap water of the peoples who submit under his dry hump. He has raped every woman in the nation." Opal, she was tied to a toilet for the first 8 years of her life; she didn't translate well. "A new genre of religious fiction, Antichristic. What is preventing your friend from pulling you down by the neck? Get invited to a party. Realize it's a *** party. "Oh it's a *** party," you say aloud, and retreat. It's no secret your aversion they see it in the springtime. A little religion will help it. Let's get out of this realm, where shitting is possible," she said to me. "Yeah so what!" "It had a visceral effect, a third party arousal." "And what is one to do when the very notion of birth and death become regrettable, revolting; mother births son, how can it be? Where once I was made it is horrific to return. The human being who grooms shits and copulates in private, the products thereof stink of shame -- yes maybe the very notion of language is unique to your human experience -- the very notion of violence, suffering -- yes maybe you should be ashamed, you are the creator of your own enemies. You are human; look what you've done. Look where your soul is hurtling in the cosmos -- endless shame, a realm of shame. Hell." "Don't even believe in Hell." "A brain is hard wired for self-loathing. This energy continues to exist long after you die. It is not transformed it is endlessly hurtling through the cosmos, plummeting through bodies -- for the rest of existence. If not on the planet Earth then elsewhere. The Earth becomes a flaming star in the sky we observe in new shame -- eternal suffering." "What about eternal life?" "Yes if the species were half the size, that does not forgive the fatal flaw of mankind -- for Man is a suffocator -- he'll even make the cattle guilty -- even the rain itself feels shame in the presence of Man -- who loves his rotting parts likes to sniff the pus." "Yes God fell asleep in an apple and woke up a Human Being." "Yes and realizing it is an animal it wants to die. What do you think?" "A Heaven exists, a Hell exists, but only if the mind believes it. Perhaps the ruination of the world is your fault. You pondered it." "You spoke it just now." "It is manifesting in front of you. Hell is where the anchor of a guilty conscience will take you upon death. Heaven, Hell, Limbo -- they exist in the present and have many names. There you will spiral uncontrollably as if propelled -- there is no going back. Pushing the boundaries of the uuuuuniverse. It is the nature of the universe to expand -- and as it does so does the life inside of us. There is no death only hurtling through space." And they parted.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Model #8 Addresses a Siamese Chund Dear Jiximal, Life is a sham. The pleasure's in the memory, the anticipation. But it cannot be roused in secret or without consequence. It cannot be summoned. It is fleeting. It is an ever-moving target thru language. So the point of my analysis -- you cannot pin life as a specimen. What a puzzle my life as a writer writing the truth but still a slave to the man ... and who is Opal? Opal is queen of the galaxy. "Frightening Endeavors" In past episodes we were removed from written sympathy -- that is, we could not read and sympathize with the work of others. Springtime came and the loins of men alit. And love has a scent. You reach down for the guitar pick, the cigarette. I set up the tent. Because it's just shocking you. You get a plum-pie job and I'll get a hairdo. And that's what you think of! You think you know my future, but you can't predict my actions! My nonfiction sounds like fiction -- so let's have it that! "Pixar's Kids" Yep, I was pretty tall standin there at the Montgomery Belt. I'm willing to bet this wad of money nobody will help me invest it! Insert obligatory anti-right wing rant -- I ain't like that don't worry! The women want to chase me outta this town and then fxxx me! It's not me it's them I swears! I just want to be a plum tree. I am a maker of dust and waste! How can I not be guilty? You look like a young Neal; Young Neal Young. The truth too strange to capture is not fiction . Just like that, Sophia Parwomile

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Extended Research Winter. The smell of earthworms hung over the kitchen sink; a rotten pipe from beneath breathed between the lower cupboard doors. The hands of the girl were swollen and red from scalding hot water drawn from the fossit to melt away caked-on gruel, in place of dish soap; very little remained; an insufficient, perhaps even an unsanitary amount of dish soap had been salvaged and had been used on quite a mountain of soiled dishes. When she had rinsed the last mug, she resolved that the plates would not have passed an inspection by a scrutinizing husband's eye; neither would their placement upon a red bathroom towel to dry; and she was glad to be without a husband. She then removed her wet socks, pulled on some fleece boots, and placed her frail body in a rocking chair in the corner of the room. An observer from the window would have seen a still body and blinking eyes fixed on a bookshelf, slightly rocking to and fro. Perhaps that is the look of a confused and distressed female. I wish not even to show it, but their eyes are always prying. I cannot help that I love him. She thought of the cigarettes she had acquired without effort, as if they were absorbed into the vacuum of her void and appeared before her. It was late afternoon and the weather was fine for mid-winter, but not preferable for an outing. But perhaps there was no type of weather pleasant enough to persuade the wicked devil woman from room 101. Why does she never speak to me? Thought the two men in room 102. They had two dogs who whined in the night, but their howling did not correlate with the phasing of the moon. In room 106 was a woman from whom a blue knitted cap was stolen -- stolen from her doorstep -- stolen by the wicked devil woman in room 101 -- whose body was frail, and whose eyes were fixed, and whose rocking chair was rocking, and whose kiss would not be kissed, not by the right one, and also no one at all. She clicked on the radio. The Rock n' Roll Jazz Spectacular, and she said "as if a hallucination, Rock n' Roll Jazz has become my only natural friend." She went outside to smoke and a fellow said "What's got you smoking again?" "I'm in love with Tenant 202," she said, and he was sympathetic, but put off, and could not find an adequate response except flashes of sympathetic words. Oh, sorr-- I hope-- find -- and he was gone, beyond the gates. My love is the bane of my existence, she thought, with a faint mumble accompanying. My love has a stench that drives them away, or stunts them beyond all functioning, and provokes their anger, their hatred, though all I ever did was be good and kind. They fight with one another over me, oh god, they are angry with one another, like I am a hambone and they are wolves. And they hate me for it, though all I ever did was be good and kind and sexy. I can't help that I am sexy it's a scent. You should see the dogs in the street they want to hump me. I can't help it I'm a flower in a dress and the birds and the bees. The poor woman whose eyes were attempted to be met by nearly every man, and whose eyes were attempted to be held for a single second's sake -- she is without the one she desires; it is the arrow in the side of a twenty-something; there is no love quite like love lacking. My guru, Dr. Plagerist, passed by the front gates and did a double take, and turned into the courtyard garden for conversation's sake. He smiled without a single tooth, and spoke like a muffled muppet, "My friiiend! Hahahaha!" They embraced. "How are you my friend? I love you soo much," he said sincerely, as they looked one another in the eye and smiled. He asked for two dollars and a cigarette. "I don't have a cigarette or two dollars" she said. He indicated her cigarette, and said through the toothless hole, "I'll be damned if you don't have a cigarette," with a very serious look. "No this is my only one, really. Sorry Mister Plagerist," she said, and took his hand in hers, and gave an apologetic pat. "Where are you working?" he said with an Ethiopian curl on the W. "Down on 14th and Pennsylvania," she said, smiling bright, and with unbridled joy, when Dr. Plagerist smiled his toothless smile. "I love you Mister Plagerist," she put her hand on his shoulder. "What are you doing today?" she asked. "I've got to go get the cigar-ettes and butter and catch the bus, the 15 bus, to Aurora, and go home and sleep and dream about you because I love you." he concluded, and they embraced. "I love you too Mr. Plagerist." "May I have your phone number?" he said over her shoulder. "Yes, do you have a piece of paper?" "No." "Neither do I. Do you have a pen?" she said, searching her own pockets, "no wait," she said," I have a pen." She grabbed his hand, and wrote on his pink palm, 555-432-6483. "If you ever need anything," she said, "I'll probably have a couple of dollars by tomorrow if you still need them," but she knew she would never answer his calls. At the bus stop, five moments after arrival, and she was already on her second cigarette that day. She realized that she could not sit still, and had been committing a half-dance in place for everyone driving down Colfax. Staring East, awaiting the arrival of the 15L (heading west), she sees an old lover riding his bicycle down the street, heading straight towards her. But instead of revealing the honest dread of confrontation, she stood straight, smiled and said "Hey Frank," with a full-on wave. "He-ey, how are you?" he put on the brakes and slowed to a stop. "I had a dream about you last night," she said. "Oh yeah? What was it like?" "I saw you in a warehouse party, and I looked at you and saw your tight light blue and white striped shirt said, to your face, 'Aw, isn't that nice, he's in his little boy shirt.' And it was funny because you are a 44 year old man and you do that in real life too." "He-ey, go easy on me," he wrinkled his face and rubbed his elbow as if he had been bitten in the arm by a wasp, "You're gonna get old too." "Your memory is hindering my ability to find inner peace -- you shattered me --" she justified her tone. "I've changed. I'm not an angry man anymore!" "Really?" she said, with disbelief. "I'm hanging by a fiery thread, but I'm not angry anymore! I've learned to handle it!" "That sounds familiar. Get out of the street!" He pulled his bicycle onto the sidewalk as a milktruck roared by, clipping its wheel on the edge of the gutter. "So where are you going? How have you been?" "Just going to work. I've been good." "How's your art?" he asked. "I've been working on it. Hopefully I can get something going soon. After twenty more years bosses bossing, will I be carved down and hardened? They stamp away your natural love," she sighed, "what I would give to remain human." "But perhaps we can be robots and live eternally." "I don't want to think about death right now," she demanded. "So when are you gonna come over?" "I'll come over sometime soon. But I'm moving in April to Capitol Hill." "What? I'll never see you again!" "I know!" she smiled wider than ever. "Hey! I don't want you to disappear! Aww! You are a neighborhood treasure!" "Oh. Here comes the bus. Look at my fake ID." She held it in front of his face. The name says R----- Francis. "Fake ID? You shouldn't do that!" he was shocked. "Yes I can! I've gotta go!" The bus pulled up to the curb. "That's not right!" he smiled and snagged her sleeve, "Come over sometime!" "And you said you've changed?" she stepped onto the bus. "Yes, I've changed!" the doors closed, and the bus driver took a first, and a second look at the photograph of a girl named R---- Francis and back up at the girl before him. From the Desk of Dr. CC Plagerist

She cannot give birth. Early childhood memories have been erased into the body's 23rd year. To me it is merely a specimen. She yearns for animal gratifications too repulsive to reveal and I will not allow it. I have carefully plotted her life around production. She emits repellent vibrations to keep away outside life forms. She sings to keep from hearing her conscience. She's only zag-quiet deaf. "I made a casserole," she said. "It has a visceral effect," she said. "It was a third-party arousal," she suggested. "I put it out by the meta-dumpster. Yeah there's ants in my apartment I enjoy their company. There ain't no worrie -- yeah so what!" she said, out by the meta-dumpster. I love her. 8.

Sophia's Body Channels A Previous Incarnation I want to hang myself from a merry-go-round -- from the highest gear -- and come out dangling in a procession of stampeding horses. I know a man who would argue that such and act would be narcissistic, and say something to rouse my guilt. Which is precisely why I have not told that man. I want to go out into a blizzard and remove my clothes beneath a tree at city park -- the man next to me can read my thoughts I saw him react -- and cut my wrists into the snow -- I can feel them pulsing now -- but perhaps when I get to that point I will no longer care how it looks, and I will grab the nearest sharp object and jam it through my temple. I was born weeping. That does not mean I am all-the-time weeping. I have what others -- many of them -- perceive to be a sick mind. To them, my amusements are not amusing, they are twisted. I walk among them with a strange immunity -- I confuse them beyond reaction. Instead of seeing me as the perfect human caricature that I perceive myself to portray, they see what I cannot, and they will never reveal it. They are too frightened. This reveals to me that I am not portraying a cartoon being, but rather, something at times sinister, pathetic, sketchy, unapproachable -- but all I ever did was be born. At times I have questioned my humanhood, that I am an android. I have always been like this. I have skin defects. My posture communicates that I am physically 85 (eighty-five). I am an incarnation of an old man -- a curse from my previous life has followed my soul -- I am looking out from the eyes of a young girl -- She could not have accumulated such karmac debt as I have brought -- it is my fault that she suffers. Now I am a young woman, slinking around the city We even scare the hobos. I have inherited her memories. I picked her because she was creative. Having made the decision to die, "I", my body, has already died. Through Her I have left my name scrawled on the Earth.

----------------------------------------------------------------

From the Desk of Dr. CC Plagerist: Outrage over a girl born twice. First to a father in Arkansas, "I saw her dead she really was." Sophia was her name both times. She was four years old when she died that time. Years later only to be discovered in the arms of another mother. I drew her blood and compared both specimens, they were identical. The former father turned white from head to toe and never recovered a flesh tone (he was black before). He went to the hospital to check his mind. "Saw her, went white, thought God musta changed his mind, withdrew the life from that child of mine and placed her anew on the linear timeline." Some of the motions from the hand of fate can be quite cruel and strangely precise. God giveth in abundance, and God taketh away, and will withhold until He sees fit you learned. I prescribed to Mr. First Father the use of a tight hat that's got magnets in the temples -- same-faced to repel bad vibrations, sending them back outward, into the world -- at the expense of contaminating the world with negativity. "Now you must know that you, pardoned from suffering, are affecting everything around you -- who, what, why. You are now a reflector instead of an absorbent mass. Your mind is a megaphone and can be heard inside the heads of all passers by." "Oh my," said First Father. He complied. In later correspondence I learned that he went out on a Sunday, walked down an alleyway between two restaurants, on the fourth of July; a whole bundle of newspapers in the garbage; they've got a vegetable garden at the halfway house, it is next to a dumpster; a round barbeque in the middle of the road, with hot coals and no attendees; a cat. "But I really want to know what kind of treeleaf this is," said he, regarding the ones that leave golden dust between the pathway cracks, and he held one up. Following a distance drum through the park and round the lake that surrounded a small island with thick brush. Across the lake was a gathering of people clapping to the gospel music glory hallelujah. First Father sat before the children's fountain and listened to the hymnals from a distance. At that time three children approached to examine the inscription. "Children's Fountain," they concluded, and their mother called them back to the path. They children mirrored those of the fountain exactly. Two boys, one of ten and one of five, and one girl of three. A wasps' nest was forming in the tight corner of the fountain crack. Praise his name, praise his name, he follows the song. A girl stands up from her place between two bushes and hides behind the thick trunk. As he approaches the crowd, a man with cross eyes approaches and very kindly offers a flier. It has a headless man in a suit and reaching out for a handshake. As he walks between them he is approached by a clean shaven very handsome minister, and is offered a free hot dog. First Father walks to the end of the crowd and pisses in a portable toilet. He sits under a tree. The children of the crowd gather around him without acknowledging his presence. "I sit outside of the crowd because I am smoking, and yet they gravitate toward me." A woman approaches F. Father and offers a free hot dog. "I don't know if you eat meat," she says to him. "Yeah that sounds good," he lies courteously. He hopes the children do not admire him for smoking. A woman on the microphone asks the crowd to stand for the national anthem. "In the nicest way possible, I stood up and left," he said. God bless America, the minsters voice echoes between the trees and follows him home. Children screaming with delight. He felt a chill in the heat, explaining that he had passed over an unmarked grave. A woman crosses over the sidewalk and through the grass to avoid passing him. "Perhaps I wear my sin like a stench, perhaps they can smell the voodoo doll I left in the cemetery." City Park -- crown jewel of the Queen City. He finds the angel Tekang on Colfax in front of Turn II barber shop where M. the barber with a superior sense of humor said hello every morning, and it was always an anxious exchange, equally from each his side, because they are the same man in two colors. The repulsion between parallel people. Tekang the toothless angel asked for two dollars and a cigarette. I was content in 2010. I had acheived the contentment that had been refused to me between puberty and late adulthood. It took me 40-some years to nurse away the perpetual open sores of my face and neck, that my fingers would find without my conscious consent and scratch bloody. I blamed my sinful nature for these sores, having observed that engaging in perverse behavior seemed to rouse them to the surface of my skin. In my humanness I was nary able to avoid bouts of perverse behavior however, and the sores continued to appear well into my 40's. When they stopped appearing I was left with dug-out cheeks. At the time my hairline was still in tact but the hair itself was beginning to thin, especially on the crown of my head. I had begun going grey in my early 20's in patches. In fact, at 21, my left temple was entirely white, which roused ideas of prophethood in my ego, starving for purpose. These ideas were affirmed by friends and acquaintances who observed my white right temple without my indication. My first name, Caleb, means 'helper of mankind'. This, my mother reminded me as a child quite frequently, thereby put tumorous ideas of prophethood in my head. I say tumorous because as the signs of prophethood began to surmount into my mid twenties, I began to frighten my loved ones with my eccentric behavior, and my mother, during an argument, suggested I have my head examined for tumors. Around that time I liked to think that my ancient ancestors were those who copulated with angelic entities, the genes of which had finally been activated after many generations of dormancy. My fate on the earth was as a martyr, or a savior, and a full-well expected to die young for the sake of good. My mother and father grew concerned when they found Black Panther literature on my bookshelf in my downtown loft in the mid 80's. Though in my mind I was a bringer of peace and unity, they accused me of having been brainwashed by militant extremists. I then learned from Bob Dylan that the Devil sometimes comes as a man of peace. I am not so diluted to think that my story, up to this point, is atypical for those whose adolescence took place during this time. In the late 90's I came to Denver with a friend of mine. It was his idea and though we came together, we parted ways within weeks of our arrival. I met my housemate, a woman, in an episcopalian church on Colfax Ave. one Sunday, after having spent a few nights in a homeless shelter. In 2010 I came to terms with the fact that I was no prophet, no savior, no messiah, and not God's favorite child. Lucky, perhaps, in many ways, but not Holy. In this realization and the existential shrinkage it came with, I was thereby rewarded, it seemed, with the home I had always vied for in my day dreams. Though I had slaved and wept and begged my entire life for even the bare minimum I needed to survive, in 2010 it all fell in my lap. I paid no fee. My debts were erased, seemingly upon waking one abitrary morning, and against physical law. The crooked spine and pinched nerve in my shoulderblade ceased their nagging bite. Was it all a result of my having been humbled? Or was it God, as with Job, relieving my lot into the latter half of my life? Though I had remained faithful, and had never blasphemed the Holy Spirit, I did not feel worthy of such relief. My sister died of a collapsed heart valve when I was 41, and I did not return home for her funeral. In my lifetime I had met many characters and, even in my extreme antisocial behavior, enjoyed the company of quite a few intelligent persons, but very few were female. I had loved a few women, but it was always fleeting, and uncommited. I am not afraid to admit that, until my later years, I was disappointed with female behavior. I found them quite inferior and, at times, vile, and evil. When a female began to speak, I left the room. Their inferior behavior was intolerable to me. This is a sin for which I have found redemption in my later years. I became acquainted with a bonified chauvinist by the name of Steven Moors who had absorbed vast amounts of anti-female literature and did recite such, even in the presence of females -- perhaps in spite of their presense. "Name one woman inventor," he would challenge, "name one female innovator who was not riding the coattails of a male predecessor. The feminist revolution was the downfall of the United States. The thing is, it is the fault of man. We wanted the feminist revolution because we wanted the sexual revolution. Look where our appetites took us. The fact that half of American voters are hysterical, illogical, emotionally driven females makes me sick, just so that they'd put out easier? I'd rather not." I had been around him at least three times, perhaps more, when he would begin his public rant. Never did I defend, or feel inclined to defend, the female. I admit that I agreed with much of what he said. He never mentioned what he thought a woman should be. He never mentioned his relationship with his mother. I loved my mother, and yet I agreed with him. The feminist revolution had spoiled the female ideal I had in my mind. The first time I witnessed a female become hysterical and inconsolable, however, I was convinced, and referred back to this image that had become etched upon the curtain of my eyelids. The patience required to deal with such behavior left me at a permanent deficit, and I couldn't understand how any man might handle it. When I turned 45 I met my wife. She was 22 at that time, and illegitimately married to a Moldovian immigrant. She was a talented artist but quite mute of mouth. My first impression of Sophia was that she was of below-average intelligence for a woman. Though it was proven otherwise -- in fact, quite contrary -- it was the look on her face, like that of an abused animal, and her body language, a slight hunch, like a woman of 80, that brought me to believe such. She was also quite tall and muscular for a female. Her inability to speak coherently, and at audible volume, and in complete sentences, and without pause to gather her thoughts, also seemed to confirm my suspicions. Her haircut was unflattering, and too short, and obviously brought on by a bout of hysteria in her bathroom late one evening. Her clothing second-hand, an attempt at looking fashionable that did not quite hit the mark, but was nonetheless flattering on her incredibly long, slim yet voluptuous body, the epitome of feminine, the proportions of which elicited hatred and jealousy from other women (the kind I still find vile to this day). -{redacted)) She was a patient of mine, to begin. She spoke, "Yes, and if one is being examined as a sexual specimen, his every salt particle will be scrutinized. So the sexual being cannot be pure -- impurities are projected on him. A sexual being cannot hide itself and wears his sins upon his forehead," and she nearly read my mind at that time. Within moments of sitting with her, I was the one speaking. It was as if a giant ear just entered the room, and I gathered my entire self to pour into it; or the eyes, more likely, the beautiful eyes, whose shine made a stage of my setting. "In my dreams I am driving down Highway 2 in the winter -- I am at a bus stop. Someone almost spits on my leg and I am a young boy, I stand up and say "Hey what's the deal mister, why'd you spit on my leg?" I get on the bus and realize I am on the wrong bus. At the next stop I point at the bus heading west and ask if that bus goes west. The bus driver is confused at my question, but gives me a 'yes'. I cross the street and fall into laughing hysterics on the sidewalk. I heard a bagpipe drone and someone vomitting Yack!" Without hesitation she remarked: "In Baghdad, thickets of electrical wire hang between huts. I'm a seventy-two year old twenty-something, my peers will never be able to engage with me, for I do not engage in games of dominance." At this time we were walking down the street, I was feeling roses and picking apricots. There was a sonic boom and a heat wave and a drastic tightening of gravity, and a tiny woman walked by, and a yellow feather fell from between the pages of the book I read while I walked, while wearing several layers of clothes. The curse of life occured to me then. The incongruence that exists between the desires fulfilled from a previous life, and the desires of the life being lived." A rooster began to crow and I vowed,"May the world end now that I have found God. If not now, the Devil will have me again within a week, a day, an hour, as he is speaking to me now." "While according to each his way, God can inhibit one being at a time, and the Overman two or more persons. We are going to administer vitamin B supplements after your meal," said my patient to me, "There were no murders before someone invented them." Until Next Time, Dr. CC Plagerist

6. I found the word Overman written in the sidewalk concrete when I looked down, and there by my side was my guru, Dr. Plagerist, who triple-confirmed what I had seen. Later that afternoon a man in a red hat walked by and gave ceremonial kisses to seven red trees in front of me, using a groping motion but it was holy. It is when I give my attention to my work, and funnel my energy through a creative vein, that people and animals crave my attention, and many interruptions occur. I am a guilty mind in an idle state, and I refract the blame between thing and thing, until I achieve perpetual motion and stand up. There is an infinite abundance of nonconclusion in our intellectual properties. That of science is infinitely divided, and the mole keeps ducking underground. The specimen cannot be pinned. _____ Though life is beautiful, I am aware that I am alive in a dying empire. Some try to ration water, perhaps they are optimists. But the rations will continue to decrease in size. People, the organism, will not stop reproducing. Such a decision requires a conscience, in order to intervene with the primal urge to reproduce. People, the organism, acts upon primal impulse; it does not possess a capacity for conscience. "In America, the people favor a rather Darwinian health care system, all the while spitting upon the idea of serving his neighbor through taxation. It seems the devil has come in a clever disguise," said my guru, Dr. Plagerist, looking up from a red book titled Washington Rules. "It is the New Russia sewn by the revelations of Ayn Rand, who spat upon the name of our Lord," I said. And then my guru said, "For these, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, we bow our heads and pray. Amen." "Amen." __ Dr. CC Plagerist is a toothless Ethopian man, with a dent in his basketball head, and a smile like a hollow triangular hole. He has been my private doctor and good friend for many years now, maybe five or more. I have at times considered him a mirage, a hallucination, or a guardian angel, but outside persons continue to acknowledge him. "Someone should intervene, you are bound to repeat history, as you have taken only one grade-school history course in your lifetime, and yet You are bestowed the gift of persuasive language. In a great game of chess, what cruel players have we!" he reviewed a manifesto of mine. "Maybe one day we'll all rise above the physical realm together. We drift off into the next dream and our phyiscal bodies are left to zombify. And the world is left to devour itself," said my guru, Dr. Plagerist. "The world is already devouring itself," I resolved. "How?" "It creates a parasite of itself." "You are blaming the planet itself for its own demise?" "To be precise," I replied. "Many people ask me if I am a Russian spy and I reply, not to my knowledge."

------------------------------------------

Transmitted by THE BRAIN of ANDROID MODEL #8, PATENTED BY DR. CC PLAGERIST Model #8 Writes a Letter to a Human Being Dear Leuchk, You were born with money in your pocket. Only if you believe in previous lives can you justify such wealth. And you feel deserving of a 1 million dollar life. Is it presupposed in your genetics? Is it proof of an evolved human? It is proof of the Overman, who has evolved exactly against alutruism, at the cost of his decency. Yes, you are the Overman. Do you feel proud or depantsed? Indeed, Sophia Parwomile

iii. Affirmator My Lord has made me a shepherd, and I shall not resent the nature of His sheep. It is in my failed shepherdhood that man has fallen, and I will therefore sink by their anchor and know it was mine. As even Jesus was tempted by the Overman, and even as Jesus knew the devil, so am I considered a worthy opponent -- but I cannot reveal this knowledge to the everyman, nor can anyone acquainted with the devil reveal it -- for fear of being considered mentally ill. But such a rule, in redux, is comparable to a knight, on a checkered board, moving only in L-shapes. The Overman controls the Hivemind, and thereby controls public perception. God does not control public perception because He cannot hinder freewill. Crowd theory reveals evil persuasion tactics in full force, nearly overpowering the freewill of every participant, willing and unwilling. A crowd is without soul; it operates on sensation alone. The Overman has tempted me and has won me many times, and tempts me daily still; I was not a saint, and I am not a saint. Through times of massive temptations and givings in, though, nary have I broken the commandments of Moses, and seldom do I cause harm to my fellow man. That which is good in me I cannot define. That which is good is identifiable by others and needs not persuade. It arouses not the senses but the spirit. The truth so potent it waters the eyes and cannot be defined in language, for language can only belittle the truth. It is therefore easily forgotten and taken for granted by those who feel God on a shallow level; whose lives are boxed in by words and numbers. Let us not deny that we are animals, and in turn, let us not deny that animals have soul capacity. Mankind possesses an arrogance in his specie that remains unaffirmed by any other organism. What makes man superior? When comparing his physiology to that of any other specie, his weaknesses are insurmountable, in all contexts, and his preoccupations useless for survival. In fact, mankind is self-loathing in its nature. Mankind wants to die. Even the strongest among men cannot wrestle a bear, and even the fastest cannot catch a rabbit. He thinks his sense of color superior, but he has never worn a tiger's eyes. He thinks his sense of spirit rivals that of a dolphin. He has no scope of comparison; he is in the human dimension. He is a maker of waste. Even this text I am writing is an obstacle course of temptation. Having realized the magnitude of the population and knowing such claustrophobia is rampant, and expanding, I am drawn to rationalizations of population control methods exercised by the Overman. Having witnessed much cruelty and hatred I am also tempted by such, to hate haters. But I know that even this is too much hate and spreads hatred. At this time my legs are very much injured from physical training. My spirit is feeling very old, of seventy four, but my physical body is twenty two. Somebody could look me in the eye and say, "what have you done to this poor girl, who was Sophia Parwomile, I can tell you're no longer a girl, but a man inside." - Model #8, copyright Dr. CC Plagerist Enterprises.

From the Desk of Dr. Plagerist: What Am I, to be Good? wrote my son, Elroy, and pushed it underneath my door. But he don't understand what I say, he only understand what I do. "We are now part of a large brain, it is the collective conscience, and now'days you can buy pieces of it. Territories, entire nations of people, you can own their brains. They are not for sale with mortal currency -- the dollar, the pound, the yen -- it's just the web upon which a human is stuck. Imagine being invisible -- because to the untrained eye, the Overman is. What could you do if you were invisible?" "I would kick idiots!" "And more." "I would take taffy from the coffee shop, and photos from the drawer!" "So, to be good is to resist all harmful impulses, even without recourse, and to quietly commit good deeds, also without recourse, even when in an invisible state." "Father, but only some can be?" "All can be." And my son became frightened and shook, and turned into an angel.

1. What we've been hiding for thousands of years -- Ripe with age -- Of my fear I made an idol -- I will live and die by its sword. I heard a shot through the wall and had to shoot out of the bath tub to call the police. Even in my modes of heavy anarchist aims I still rely heavily on the police. For this I blame my female body and bouts of feminine charm, from which I have rendered many self harms. That morning with a hangover I lay in bed, it must have been 7am, and I ponder upon the deaths of one or two angry men. Maybe grind glass upon his steak, maybe top his coffee with visine. The world would be thankful for such a thing. But I know these things are of the Overman, who is influencing my thoughts and must be ignored. He is a destroyer of beautiful things. He is a maker of doubtful bouts and defeat. He lives in the glow of television screens and projects himself into your eye. Upon that thought I heard a foreign beep-beeping from the living room and allowed it to sound five times before darting from the bed to see. When I came into the living room it ceased and the cats remained. I feel sorry for aging grapes so I eat them all. "It's true, it's true, covetting is not without consequence. The child I was created this monster. This human who sometimes perpetuates the problem." "A certain amount of guilt and depression are necessary to endure. Many of these new creatures refuse to acknowledge the guilt and shame sewn rightly into the human psyche," said my guru, Dr. Plagerist. "All these people can hear what I'm thinking about them, I see the change in their demeanor. It is not schizophrenic, does anyone really believe in that? It is a product of my inability to lie, even with my facial expressions. Thus they read my mind, thus I project my judgments outward, and instant karma. I receive a blow in the form of watching him crumble and feeling his pain. Collateral damage." "If it is true, it is your own isolated experience, a private message, and God is trying to tell you something." said my guru, Dr. Plagerist. While according to each his way, God can inhibit one being at a time, and the Overman two or more persons. We are going to administer vitamin B supplements after your meal, said my guru, Dr. Plagerist. I remember begging in my last life as (unnamed musician) to receive a second chance and to return to a body uncorrupted by drugs. What I came to realize was that I had become a young woman of 23, whose conscience was relatively corrupted, but somewhat less than my previous, and whose inborn and consumed biologies were only somewhat riddled with drugs, rather than all-consumed. When I realized myself in the middle of a restaurant bar, I also realized everyone around me. I, (unnamed musician), had absorbed all the memories and perceptions of this relatively new, and only somewhat female, human vessel, and forgot my previous name. The masculine wisdoms I had accrued into my 72nd year were now implanted into the brain of a nameless 23 year old woman. But it was not without her help, as she had first channeled my dying soul. And it was not without benefit for her life, for I had helped save her soul. When I did, God announced that He would be leaving me for a while, as He sometimes does. And He left us both. ___ Nay, the human is a nocturnal animal. Thus the cultural facination with vampires, werewolves, and witches. These are the things we become when we consume spirits, to each his own. Witches drink gin, this I know. Wolves like whiskey. Vampires wine and vodka. T. was a vampire, and her husband S.. They came from M., just East of Transylvania. I married S. on the 22nd of December 2009, and they gave me $1000 underneath a table booth at a Chinese buffet. "I do not know how any being can operate without receiving forgiveness for his sins. But that is me, I have always felt shame. Many seem incapable of shame, but it is necessary for cognitive, spiritual and physical growth. I drink my tea from the honey jar." I said. "I find you an unusual case of masculexia, wherein your masculine soul is given only written voice and cannot connect with vocal cords," said my guru, Dr. Plagerist. "Yea" I said, "my anger is also quite like that. Lacking the words." __ Some chick handed me a coin with an angel pressed into it and said "When you look at the clouds on the wall you will always find an eye." She signed her credit card slip and didn't make any eye contact. "Your life will never get easier. Learn to love the fight," said a regular of mine. "Dude are you freaking out?" Said I. "No, just reminiscing on something . . . that everyone is gay." "That's quite presumptuous of you." "Not one is innocent." I want to hang myself from a merry go round and come out swinging betwixt two horses. I want to go out in the dead of a blizzard with a razorblade and bleed into the virgin snow. This is the true result of a life lived and I will not lie around it. I wander the streets of Colfax after hours and remain unscathed -- this is part of my living Hell; that death is always beyond my reach. My life has been ruined by men so I have realized my purpose. It is not to live. By the time you read this I will be dead. People think I am pathetic inept. I've heard them say it. The noose will be made of my hands. My place is not within this realm. I will begin by detailing my few hundred failed attempts at death. I am an artificial human. Nobody will tell me what I am. But how do I plot to reign on the general populous and my enemies without drowning my self? Yes, I will give a gruesome account of coming of age and I will not spare myself the humiliation. I will share my specimen with the hivemind. I was created to expose and report the weaknesses of humankind, and to bring its demise, for the better of the planet Earth. Sophia Parwomile THIS TEXT CONDUCTED BY MODEL #8, PATENTED BY DR. CC PLAGERIST

Back to writing catalog